


The Lift: Scenario One

by maddiemaynot



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Pining, Pre-Armageddon, kind of angsty but barely, kind of fluffy but barely, so much pining, they're stuck in a lift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 11:15:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21160751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddiemaynot/pseuds/maddiemaynot
Summary: "What if Aziraphale and Crowley get stuck in a lift together?"Scenario One: In which they are still pining, hard, for one another.(Beta-ed by the wonderful definitelynotcharlea)





	The Lift: Scenario One

Aziraphale smacks his lips and then dabs at them delicately with his napkin. “That was delicious,” he murmurs happily. 

Crowley watches with a gentle expression. He’s never quite understood the angel’s fondness for food, but the way Aziraphale picks carefully at a slice of cake with a fork or expertly handles a plate of sushi is a source of joy for the demon. He enjoys watching Aziraphale eat. His careful way of tasting everything on the plate, the little contented noises he makes when he tastes something particularly pleasing – every aspect is addictive to Crowley.

As Aziraphale folds the napkin onto the plate in front of him, Crowley begins to stand up out of his chair, shrugging his jacket on as he does so. 

“C’mon, angel. I’ll give you a lift home,” he offers. Usually these lifts home end in an evening of good wine, better whiskey and great conversation. He enjoys this part the most. Watching the angel get steadily drunker and less inhibited, opening up to Crowley… well, Crowley has many reasons for being a firm believer in the joys of alcohol consumption, but the time Aziraphale told him  _ sotto voce _ , as if heaven were listening in, that he secretly didn’t understand what It Was All About, either, was definitely in Crowley’s top ten.

The pair walk towards the lift that will take them from the fourth-floor tearoom at Harrod’s to the ground floor, where the Bentley waits patiently. As he walks, Crowley glances up and slows a bit. The stars in the night sky twinkle down through the glass ceiling and Crowley thinks briefly and wistfully of the constellations he helped build. He would love to show the angel those stars one day. He shakes the thought out of his head and jogs a couple of steps to catch up to Aziraphale, who has already reached the lift and pushed the button. 

The lift dings on arrival.

“After you,” Aziraphale gestures for Crowley to get in first. He complies, the tiniest of smiles on his face. Aziraphale is so old fashioned. It’s adorable. And Crowley rather enjoys being treated well. The angel follows him into the lift and Crowley taps the ground floor button.

The elevator closes its doors on the beautiful tearoom and begins its steady descent. Crowley taps his fingers on the gold bar that runs around the perimeter of the lift. He opens his mouth to say something to Aziraphale. He’s sure it would have been witty, funny – possibly even groundbreaking, but before he gets a chance to speak, the lift grinds to a halt and the lights die.

“Wha-” Crowley starts. 

“Ah. The power has gone out.” Aziraphale interrupts. Crowley feels rather than sees the angel shift nervously from foot to foot. 

“So we’re stuck then,” Crowley’s finger tapping increases in tempo. Tap tap tap. His foot joins in. Tap t-tap tap. Tap t-tap tap. He is unsure of what to do with himself. He can feel Aziraphale, the space between them. He wants nothing more than to close that gap but…

An echo in his ears, from some 35 years prior. “You go too fast for me Crowley.” He holds his muscles stiff, stops tapping. 

He understands, he really does. He’s had Hell’s denizens breathing down his neck for the past 6000 years. Always in the back of his mind, every time he sees the angel, speaks to him, he imagines what torture awaits him when he’s found out. 

The difference is, to him, Aziraphale is worth it. Sure, he’ll be found out one day. It’s inevitable. And Hell has ways of making disobedient demons suffer. Hell has ways of making  _ obedient _ demons suffer. Crowley knows he would suffer an eternity of torture in exchange for these small meetings and meals and evenings with Aziraphale. 

Crowley understands. He narrows his yellow eyes behind his sunglasses as he imagines what Aziraphale might be feeling right now. Aziraphale, ever reluctant. Terrified of incurring the wrath of Heaven. Crowley knows first-hand how terrible that wrath can be. 

Crowley hears Aziraphale slide down to sit on the floor. “Angel? Are you okay?” 

“Perfectly alright, my dear. I’m not sure how long we’ll be here, might as well save some energy.”

Crowley snorts.  _ Save energy _ , like their celestial bodies could ever grow tired. Sure, Crowley is fond of sleep. But he doesn’t  _ need  _ it. He just enjoys it. The way one can shut their eyes on the horrors of the world and wake up in some new and improved century. Although he promised Aziraphale he wouldn’t sleep for a hundred years again, not without warning him. 

He folds his knees and joins Aziraphale on the cool lift floor. “How long do these things usually last?” 

In the dim light he sees Aziraphale’s shoulders move up and down in a shrug. “A few seconds usually? The storm of ’87 kept the power out all night though…” the angel trails off. 

Crowley’s eyes widen slightly at the simultaneous horror and joy of being stuck in an elevator all night with Aziraphale. Every hair on his body is standing up on end. 

“Lot of things can happen in a night…” Crowley winks at Aziraphale and hates himself, remembering his sunglasses and the dark of the space. He tries to recover himself by nudging the angel with a bony elbow.

“ _ Ow, _ ” Aziraphale says, “Crowley, that  _ hurt _ .” 

“Sorry.”

“Besides, I don’t think the power will be out that long. The weather was perfectly pleasant earlier. Bit windy perhaps, but nothing quite so terrible as that storm.” Crowley almost believes that the angel nervous, with the speed he’s talking.

Crowley captures this thought in his brain. Why would the angel be nervous? He holds the thought out in front of him, lets it take form and shape. Nervous because of the dark? Surely not – they had lived through the literal dark ages. No, something else then. Nervous about being stuck in a lift with a demon? Again, that doesn’t seem to quite fit. It’s on the edge of being right, Crowley can feel it. The answer is there on the periphery of his mind’s eye. He turns away from that train of thought. 

Another thought process (one he often plays out in his head usually when he’s alone in his apartment) begins. He takes the thought and places it in a stuck lift in London –  _ a golden haired angel and yellow eyed demon trapped in a lift. The angel turns to the demon.  _

_ “6000 years together on earth? Of course I’ve grown to love you. Forget heaven, forget hell. Forget God. It’s love, how could She protest anyway?” _

_ The demon placing his hands either side of the angel’s face and leaning in. Foreheads touching, tasting one another’s breath. “I’ve waited so long to hear you say that…” _

Crowley shakes his head, hard. Throw the thought away, it’ll never happen. If he prayed, he’d be praying now for the power to come back and the lift to descend. Or praying for the power to never come back. He’s in two minds – one wants to sit here, next to the angel, almost touching, words hanging unspoken in the air forever. The other wants the open air, space, wants the torture of being this close to Aziraphale and yet so far from him to be over. He begs for the power to come back and he begs for it to never come back.

“Crowley? Are you alright? You’ve gone rather quiet.” Aziraphale’s soft voice breaks through Crowley’s racing thoughts.

“Hmph. Motion sickness. Probably.”

“Ah.”

There’s a beat and Crowley’s thoughts are about to start whirling through his head again when:

“ _ Motion sickness?  _ The speedometer in your car has never dropped below 90 miles per hour in the 80-something years you’ve had it!”

“Cars are different, angel. They go forwards and backwards, not up and down, and I tell it where to go.”

“Well I suppose that makes sense…”

Another beat. Crowley imagines winding a long arm around the angel’s shoulders, pulling him in close. Perhaps burying his face in those soft curls…

“Crowley?”

“Yes, angel?” Crowley is almost exasperated at the interruption. He was enjoying that thought.

“The lift isn’t moving.”

“I know that angel, that’s why we’re sat here.”

“So how on earth can you have motion sickness?”

“I… The… It’s psychosomatic or something, angel, I don’t know.” Crowley shifts uncomfortably, the floor hard under his too-skinny frame. 

“I think I know what you mean.” Aziraphale reaches out a hand to Crowley. He pats the demon’s hand, once, twice, three times, before giving it a squeeze. Bolts of electricity shoot down Crowley’s spine, and it’s all he can do to not grab hold of the angel’s hand and hold on as tight as he can and never let go. Instead, he stiffens, staying stock still. 

Aziraphale’s hand rests lightly on Crowley’s. The demon is counting the seconds, the years, the millennia that it seems to rest there. He begins to relax into the touch and tries to coax his mind into doing the same. It’s nothing. A friend comforting another. It’s nothing. 

“We’ll be out of here soon enough, my dear.” Aziraphale murmurs, giving Crowley’s hand another squeeze and another bolt of electricity runs through the demon.

He thinks to himself. Enough. Flip your hand. Palm to palm. A small thing. Nothing really. Two friends holding hands in the dark. 

A whoosh. And the hum of electricity. Four things happen simultaneously. Crowley turns his wrist to hold Aziraphale’s hand. The lights glare back to life. Aziraphale jerks his hand away, as if the hosts of heaven themselves have descended to see. The lift judders and begins its steady descent.

Crowley blinks hard in the light and scrambles slightly to his feet. His palm is still tingling from the millisecond of contact. His heart is racing and breaking and repairing itself. We held hands. He snatched his hand away. We held hands. 

Aziraphale rises to his feet somewhat more gracefully than the demon. “I think I’ll walk home, if it’s all the same to you, my dear. I feel I could do with a spot of fresh air after that.”

Crowley nods, mute. He doesn’t dare to look at the angel. We held hands. He snatched his hand away. We held hands.

“Perhaps. That is to say. Would you join me one evening next week instead? I have a couple of bottles of a delightful rioja just begging to be drunk.”

“Hm? Yeah, sounds lovely, angel. I’ve got to report to Hastur and Ligur one evening, something about some great nefarious plan or the other, but… call me I suppose?”

“Or you me, my dear.” 

The lift doors open, revealing the rather empty ground floor of Harrods. Crowley waves away a flustered shop assistant (“We’re fine, no harm done. Leave us  _ alone _ .”) and the pair walk through the shop to the front door. 

Standing outside under the green awning adorning the front of the shop, Crowley turns to Aziraphale. The soft artificial glow of the street lamps makes the angel look… well, angelic really. Crowley can’t bear it. He swallows his pride and decides. One last attempt. “Are you sure I can’t give you a lift?”

“No, no, I’m quite alright my dear boy. I’d much prefer the open air after all that. I’ll see you soon though. Goodbye!” Aziraphale turns and begins to walk off in the night and Crowley watches. He feels remarkably empty every time he parts ways with the angel and resolves to drive even faster than usual to make up for it. He clicks his fingers and the Bentley unlocks itself and starts its engine as he walks around to the driver’s door. The radio blares to life and Crowley growls at the song.

_ “I… was booorn… to looove you,”  _ sings Freddie Mercury, and Crowley revs the engine hard, twists the volume knob down and pulls out and away. 

A pedestrian jumps back onto the pavement and shakes his fist at the rapidly disappearing classic car. “Shouldn’t be allowed on the road,” he grumbles.


End file.
